The costumes were nearly as bad as Haymitch had imagined.
To be fair, the idea was always terrible, but he had been holding on to that little sliver of hope that maybe the stylists actually knew what they were doing.
He felt a little silly in his baggy overall-type outfit as Mathilde pulled it up over his body, but reminded himself that this was redeemable. He hoped. Because nothing would be worse than flunking the reaping, flunking the opening ceremony, and flunking the rest.
He had better prepare himself for at least a week of games without any sponsors. He'd probably wait until a few people died out, and the viewers lost their favourite, and found someone else. But he'd have to be careful until then.
'Perfect,' said Mathilde impressively, staring down his awful costume.
Quince Everly looked equally as perplexed as Haymitch, his even being a couple sizes too small for him, and whined about how silly it looked on him.
'Oh, Quince, would you please be quiet?' Mathilde demanded.
Almost as soon as the pair were dressed, they were whisked down to the bottom floor of the Remake Centre, where an army's worth of horses and chariots, arranged in District formation, with two side by side, lay waiting.
Doubled tributes equaled double chariots, and double chariots meant a lot of chariots. And usually, they'd would enter one by one, both tributes on. But this time, two chariots were released at once.
Haymitch's thoughts flitted to the massive amount of tributes, his eyes scanning all forty-seven of them. And from the forty-seven, there were at least forty-four – forty-five, if he counted Quince – with a better chance than him, and he was going to have to outlive every single one of them.
His odds were so low, he wanted to escape, to run away, right then and there. Until Quince, in an attempt to be funny, which failed, as per usual, stumbled into Haymitch, sending him crashing headfirst into the wall beside him, which made it slightly difficult to walk in a straight line, let alone leave.
Haymitch fumed in frustration, watching as Mathilde trotted over, shocked. At first, he deemed nothing to be wrong, until he straightened up, and heard an odd, loose, rattling noise from his helmet.
Carefully, he pulled it off, despaired to realise that now a singular crack ran straight through the middle. Haymitch's heart began to race as the opening music introduced the ceremony, blaring through what sounds like a million invisible speakers, and the first pair of chariots left the stable for its ride through the stadium.
'What do I do?' Haymitch groaned, but Mathilde had already yanked the headlamp-sporting helmet from his hands. Oh, god. The only costume worse than a baggy miner's jumpsuit with no sleeves was a baggy miner's jumpsuit with no sleeves and no helmet to go with it.
At this rate, he was going to look more like a farmer than a miner. Which would've been great, should he have been District 11.
The second set of chariots left the stable, and Mathilde trotted out of sight, inducing a pang of stress in Haymitch's chest. He felt ridiculous in his getup, but had no time to be opinionated right now.
The District 3 chariots were gone, 4's soon to depart.
As Mathilde finally came waddling back, she brandished both a comb and a frustrated expression.
'I couldn't find any gel,' she huffed impatiently, attacking Haymitch's dark waves with the comb until they cooperated. As she finished, she pulled back, admiring her work.
Fifth set gone, sixth leaving now.
'I look stupid!' Haymitch exclaimed, unable to hold his anger much longer. He stared down at himself, then back up to Mathilde. 'Who wears a miner's outfit without sleeves and without a hat?'
'Just trust me,' Mathilde quipped, giving his hair one last swoop of the comb.
How was he supposed to trust her if she was slicking back his hair like that? He was bound for failure.
District 10's chariots were long gone by this point, and Haymitch watched in frustration as 11's pulled out of the stable. District 12 was the last pair of the lot. The next one.
Maysilee and Zinnia boarded the chariot beside the boys, both of which were glossy and black and built like a slipper: closed in at the front, and open at the back, which made for an easy entrance and exit. The two girls were dressed no less horrendously than Haymitch and Quince, sporting a skimpy outfit, clearly a heavily snipped-up version of what the boys wore, which consisted of a tighter top, a skirt formed from its previous pant legs, and headlamp-adorned helmets similar to Haymitch and Quince's.
The chariot began to move the second Haymitch boarded, and as he approached the entrance to the stadium, he caught a glimpse of himself in the reflection of its shiny, black paint job.
His brown locks had already untidied themselves since Mathilde's comb-attack, and now fell, messy, over his forehead, creating a dangerous look about him that he didn't mind so much. Of course, the Capitol might, but who cared, anyway? He was bound to die; he may as well enjoy it until then.
The huge, colourful city came into view almost immediately, breathtakingly stunning in the line of light where day met dusk. The people of the Capitol, lining the grandstands in a sea of vibrant hues, did nothing but cheer as the two District 12 chariots emerged, engulfed in decorative smoke and shades of gray.
Following his initial stunned reaction, as they entered the roofless, Capitol-view stadium, a much larger and substantially concerning thing consumed Haymitch's attention: alarmingly huge footage of himself, his expression of subtle shock, on the enormous duplicate screens, making his whole, ridiculous outfit visible.
He felt so laughable, he almost did.
An uncontrollable grin almost split Haymitch's face as he began warm up to his screen presence, admiring the way his sleeveless outfit brandished his biceps nicely. But with the District 12 tributes now the sole inhabitant of the Capitol's camera gaze, Haymitch did allow himself a half-smile, and he could've sworn he heard the crowd cheer just a little louder.
So they liked him, even just a little bit. That was good, he supposed. Although it had crossed him that the Capitol showed appeal for almost everyone they cheered into the pits of death, Haymitch had decided to ignore that fact, and hope, just for now, and just for his life's sake, that they really, truly liked him, even just a little.
It had also crossed him that he was going to have to try a little harder than that to win their favour, however the mere thought of putting on a show for the very people who were about to place money on how soon he'd end up mangled and bleeding out on the ground of an arena exhausted him. What was the point of being likeable in a crowd of people who benefited from his death?
Maysilee, however, had taken quite a different perspective, and had been show-ponying for the cameras since they'd first arrived in the Capitol. She'd gained enormous applause after blowing a kiss at the camera during the opening ceremony, which confused Haymitch, as he was sure that if he were up in those stands, watching a couple of tremendously silly-looking children in skimpy, chopped-up mining costumes blowing kisses, he'd have laughed. But clearly, and by no surprise, the taste of Capitol citizens quite matched their obscure sense of fashion, and they loved it.
They didn't love you. They loved the show, Haymitch wanted to tell Maysilee.
The Capitol were nothing but a craving bunch of thrill-seekers, desperate to see their inferiors fight to the death as pure entertainment. But the last thing he wanted to be known for was the cynical know-it-all from District 12.
But was this him letting his guard down? What had happened to his vow not to care too much about anyone? Clearly, he was losing his grip. And only five days before the Games began.
Haymitch had been able to maintain just a small, subtle grin for a majority of the trip around the stands, though as their chariot, the final one, reached the City Circle, he was no short of breath-taken, and his jaw dropped.
There were thousands of people here. Possibly hundreds of thousands. Whatever number it was, was more than Haymitch had seen in any one place in real life. There were onlookers, both in the stands, and observing from the windows of the Capitol buildings that surrounded them, and Haymitch felt his breath catch in his throat as the twenty-four chariots filled the City Circle loop, pulling up right in front of what was probably the most monumental building in the whole city: President Snow's enormous mansion.
The president himself, a sixty-odd-year-old man, with white hair and a grim expression, stepped forward onto the centre balcony, beginning the welcome.
Haymitch didn't absorb any of it. In fact, he wasn't even entirely sure it was a welcome. It could've been a death march, and he would still have been too engulfed in his flitting appearances on the big screens to notice.
Not that he was vain – it was mostly to self-ridicule the way he looked.
Anyhow, as the tributes and their chariots made their way around the rest of the loop and back toward the Training Centre, Haymitch felt amused, at the least.
He hadn't yet taken note of any of the other tributes – for the reasons A, he didn't much care for their outfits or appearance, and B, he'd have a better chance at Tuesday's interviews, which were still five days away.
Group training began the following day, which was nothing like Haymitch had expected.
The way Euphemia Trinket had explained it, it sounded like a walk in the park – the tributes from his district, and maybe a few more playing around with a couple training weapons. It was only the first day, after all.
But as the elevator dinged, and the four District 12 tributes arrived at the bottom floor of the Tribute Tower - the designated area of the Training Centre they would reside in for the next couple of days, they were dismayed to discover their appearance as the last district to show up.
Well, Haymitch was sure Euphemia was dismayed. But his biggest concern as he entered the huge, gymnasium-like room, filled with weapons and shiny things and leaves and anything you could think of, was the forty-four tributes staring right back at them.
He immediately clocked Evander Rhett, the army-buzz-cut tribute, upon first glance, who, terrifyingly, looked scarier in person. His glance then flicked across to a tall, broad-shouldered girl, who stood directly beside Tempest Mellin, from District 4, her eyes a piercing a blue and her hair a shimmering blonde.
Glitz Lurox, Haymitch thought, his stomach dropping slightly. This one, he feared.
She was both physically and probably mentally stronger than him, her arms muscular, and her face fierce. He was almost lost in her physique for a moment, before a yell startled him slightly, and he and the forty-seven other tributes turned to face a short, agile-looking woman, with the face of a mouse – as Haymitch observed – who'd summoned them all with a loud shout.
Following the other tributes, who seemed to know what they were doing a lot more than he did, Haymitch joined the half circle they'd formed around the mouse-faced woman, who, in her striped jacket, clearly held the position of head trainer.
She introduced herself as Nona Derick, before jumping right into the fate of forty-seven of the forty-eight tributes in the room in just a few days: dead.
After dumping on them the old news of their imminent death, she began to explain the rules of the training room: no fighting with other tributes, and the importance of the first four compulsory exercises they were all to participate in.
No longer than ten minutes later, Nona introduced the individual training time, which was, apparently, a race for the best weapons and areas.
Haymitch followed quietly at the back of the pack, taking the rest of the tributes in as quickly as possible. Well, until he heard another shout, and stared in horror as a sharp, shiny knife, fancier than any Haymitch had ever cooked with, began to hurtle towards him.
'Hey, Twelve, heads,' one of the Career tributes – Lago Maddox, as Haymitch recognised – called, and Haymitch barely had time to think before his instincts kicked in, and he caught the knife in one swift motion just a seconds before it hit him directly in the face.
He felt just the slightest bit proud as he watched Glitz nod, impressed, sharing an eyebrow-raised glance with Evander Rhett.
'Nice one, Twelve,' Maysilee mocked Lago from behind him, and Haymitch almost grinned.
'Lago, please, try not to attack the other tributes. There'll be plenty of time for that in the arena,' Nona scolded, watching as Lago smirked in response, disregarding the sincerity in her words.
Training ran as smoothly as one could bet on, when forty-four other people in the room stood a higher chance at surviving the next two weeks.
Assuming the Games were as short as a week, of course, which they almost never were.
Haymitch had taken a liking to the simulation in one of the back areas of the large training space, in which he knife-fought until his fingers blistered up and it was time to head back.
A few times throughout the day, he'd caught one or two of the Careers observing him from afar, but he'd already vowed to himself not to find allies, and he'd rather be killed on the spot than team up with one of them.
They were bound to turn on him and murder him.
Careers moved like that. They would work their way into your trust, defending you from other tributes and generously sharing their food findings, before killing you when you least expected it. Haymitch had seen it happen on television numerous times. Every year, he had remembered thinking at least once:
Don't do it. Don't team up with them. They're going to kill you.
And nine out of ten times, he was right.
He was good like that. Wary, and cautious, and unlikely to do anything stupid, unless he was getting a bit bored.
Maybe that's what he'd do: hide out until surviving became uninteresting, after the Bloodbath had already taken the lives of a good third of the tributes, before jumping out of the shadows and performing like never before.
But no, that wouldn't work now. Every tribute had seen his skills with a knife. There was no pretending he was scared and unskilled. He could kill, and everyone knew it. But how else was he going to survive? Wait everyone out?
To be fair, there'd been many a Hunger Games where the victor simply just outlasted the other tributes. But that was an old, boring trick. If he was going to be seen as respectable, from any perspective, he was going to have to fight.
He could, and he would.
Haymitch's Capitol mentor, Connell Silvanus, whom Haymitch was introduced to back in the District 12 penthouse after training, turned out to be a surly young man, his sandy curls sitting neatly atop his head with some unbeknownst Capitol magic.
His looks, however, although above average, gave no assistance when it came to his uselessness, and in the first five minutes Haymitch had spent with him, he had already deemed Connell unhelpful in every way.
Of course, Connell was young and fit and could probably lift more than Haymitch's own body weight, but what help was that when teaching a weakling how to defeat almost fifty people in a fight to the death? Obviously, as Haymitch noted, Connell must've lost a bet of some sort to end up mentoring the weakest of tributes in the Hunger Games. It was clear, through his apparent lack of interest.
The four District 12 mentors – all recent University graduates – took their tributes to the training room in the evening - a 'special' trip, that, as they tried to convince Haymitch, Maysilee, Zinnia, and Quince, was their 'Capitol Privilege.'
It became clear after a while, however, that they had no interest in actually training the tributes.
'Just— keep doing that,' Haymitch had heard Connell say about a million times, before he would turn back to charm the girl alongside him, Celiea Triturus, who was mentoring – or more observing – Maysilee Donner, as she performed flawlessly.
Even Haymitch had paused to watch Maysilee for a little: fast as anything, intelligent, and, to Haymitch's surprise, highly inventive.
He felt himself stare, mouth wide open in admiration, as she crafted a small trap from merely twigs and rope, but had to remind himself to straighten up as she caught his eye.
Connell, after about an hour of talking up Celiea, had gestured – not even a verbal suggestion, but merely a wave of the hand – for Haymitch to leave the training room, alongside Maysilee, who looked even more frustrated than Haymitch felt.
'Well, my mentor's useless. What about you?' Maysilee sighed hopelessly, returning her axe to its shelf as she followed Haymitch out of the training rooms.
'Same,' Haymitch murmured quietly, shaking his head in annoyance.
'Capitol prick?' Maysilee enquired with a smirk, to which Haymitch chuckled lightly.
'Yeah. With the hots for yours, clearly,' he rolled his eyes.
Maysilee fell silent for a moment, her eyes fixed on the corridor floor as they approached an elevator.
'You alright?' Haymitch felt himself ask, immediately regretting it.
'Just the Games on my mind, I guess. I just... I don't know how I'm supposed to feel, y'know?' Maysilee said quietly, twirling the braid in her hair gently in her fingers.
Haymitch paused for a moment, his eyebrow knitted in confusion. 'How you're... supposed to feel?' he questioned, glancing up at her.
Maysilee's line of sight remained firm on the ground as she spoke. 'I don't know. It just... feels like there's a specific way we're supposed to react for the Capitol in order to get supporters, and it's just... wrong. Why should I be happy about this? My probable death occurs in probably just over a week. How am I supposed to feel enlightened about that?' she blurted, finally looking up to meet Haymitch's gaze.
Haymitch felt stupid and weak.
How had he let their relationship reach this stage? Of course, silently, he agreed with her. But was friendship such a wise decision to make if one of them – most likely both – were to die in just over a week, like she'd pointed out?
'I— wow, I... never really thought of it that way,' Haymitch admitted, though his voice was forced and emotionless.
'I figured you hadn't. You've acted so... nonchalant, since we got here. How are you okay about all of this?' Maysilee demanded.
Haymitch felt sudden relief as Zinnia Verne, Quince Everly, and the four Capitol mentors turned up behind them at that moment, and all eight of them piled into the arriving elevator in silence.